Giant Fingers at the Window

Sleep was impossible. The room was too small. The bed was too small. The giant fingers of his conscience were scratching at the window.

Photo of Renwal doll taken 5/7/08. Fingers courtesy of the artist.

Turquoise Galaxy

I received an e-mail from John Glick of Plum Tree Pottery following the post about the "Glorious Cabinet of Perfect Order and Beauty." (Two of his fantastic ceramic vessels are proudly displayed in said cabinet.) He attached photos of an exciting new project he is working on. His accompanying note resonates with my own perspective concerning the creation of art:

"I will include one full view and several amazing little universes that seem to be rich in visual color poetry and possibly a grace that comes only in the unguarded moments we have when playfulness has a tag game with good luck and experience."

I'd agree. That is the joy and surprise and discovery all artists savor.

Thrillingly, John told me he was going to mail me a "bit," a sample from this new work. Imagine the fun of receiving a small package containing a beautiful tile alive with swirls and clouds and gorgeous splotches. Something both earthy and celestial -- a turquoise galaxy unreeling over a field of rich brown. I took its picture; a partial portrait glows above. I have never met John, have only admired his art. What generosity of spirit. I will reciprocate with something poetic.

John suggested using a loupe for viewing the details in the glaze. I am obsessed with all things miniature, so can only imagine what tiny worlds might blossom when magnified. Also, picture using the loupe to view fiddlehead ferns, fabric, the angel wing begonia leaves....

Here's where John suggested finding an inexpensive loupe: Calumet Photographic.

(To see "The Glorious Cabinet..." post, scroll down to the 5/2/08 entry. For parallel comments on the "grace" of creative expression, on art and writing, see the 10/22/07 "Space Doll" post. Just click on "Older Posts" at the bottom of this page and scroll back in time.)

Click on photo to enlarge.

The Ghost Between Them

In the wee hours of the morning, I heard from the multi-talented Wendy Lewis at Mental Contagion that the new issue was out. Mental Contagion is an online arts and literature magazine that features interviews and work by artists, writers and performing artists. You can get happily lost there for hours. I mean it.

If you'd like to read three prose poems from Stirring the Mirror that are now available online for the first time on Mental Contagion, visit their fascinating Web site by clicking on the magazine title. I've also included a link in the sidebar, along with links to other online work.

As for the photograph above, several captions come to mind. Here are a few:

1. Her ghost is always between them, whispering.

2. Since the breakup, she feels like an exposed root: painfully sensitive, suddenly blind, anemic.

3. Her life pales in comparison to the colorful lives of her siblings/parents/friends.

If a caption pops into your mind, share it by e-mailing it to cbklu [at] optonline [dot] net. I'd love to post some. Remember the Baby Muse inspiration project? That was FUN. (See earlier posts: 2/29/08, 3/2/08 & 3/19/08. You can get to them by clicking on "Older Posts" at the bottom of this page.)

Photo of Renwal dolls taken 5/7/08. Click on image to enlarge.

Effervescence

He was always stunned by the way her overly-bubbly personality dominated the atmosphere.

Photo of old Renwal dolls taken on my deck this afternoon, 5/7/08. Click to enlarge image.

Winged Seeds

She whispered to them all that night, filling their skulls with her dreams. She woke just before dawn, imagining she still stood in a dark wood, cupping her hands to catch winged seeds. The waxing moon lingered as a gold cocoon in the western sky. At sunrise, she led the children to the open door. She looked down proudly at their lengthening branches and leafy crowns. When they saw the six deep holes, they understood. They leaped from the stairs into their marked places, raising their arms to the sun.

Excerpt from "Parchment and Twigs," first published in Text: Ur -- The New Book of Masks, then in Stirring the Mirror. Picture of maple seeds, my yard, 5/1/08.

The Book That Leaped to My Hand

On a visit to the library, while I scanned the poetry titles, an old blue paperback (1975) leaped to my hand. Sometimes a book is insistent that way. It cries out for your immediate attention, for a human fingertip against its spine. We needed each other. The last time this book left the shelf was 2003.

Friends, You Drank Some Darkness is a collection of the poetry of three Swedish poets: Harry Martinson, Gunnar Ekelof, and Tomas Transtromer, chosen and translated by Robert Bly. Although I was unfamiliar with poetry by the first two, Transtromer is one of my favorite writers. The book was in bad repair, binding taped and pages stained, but the words were fresh, vivid and deep. I kept returning to Transtromer's poems most frequently, but the others were fascinating, too. I have renewed the book twice, flagging the best poems and lines with Post-Its. I managed to find a used copy online, which I ordered yesterday.

Here are some lines from Transtromer's "A Few Moments": "The dwarf pine on marsh ground holds its head up: a dark rag. / But what you see is nothing compared to the roots, / the widely groping, deathless or half- / deathless root system. // I you she he also put roots out. / Outside our common will. / Outside the city." Then, the powerful and mysterious ending: "It is as if my five senses were hooked up to some other creature / that moves with the same stubborn flow / as the runners in white circling the track as the night comes misting in." And how can you not savor the quivering jolt of the final stanza from "After a Death": "It is still beautiful to feel the heart beat / but often the shadow seems more real than the body. / The samurai looks insignificant / beside his armor of black dragon scales."

Each poet's work is introduced by Robert Bly, whose words are insightful and poetic themselves. I love the way he describes the magic of Transtromer's writing: "His poems are a sort of railway station where trains that have come enormous distances stand briefly in the same building. One train may have some Russian snow still lying on the undercarriage, and another may have Mediterranean flowers still fresh in the compartments, and Ruhr soot on the roofs."

Photo of root and moss: my front yard, 4/3/08.

Glorious Cabinet of Perfect Order and Beauty

This is the cabinet in the eye of the storm: shelves of perfect stillness and order, of beautiful and oddly fascinating objects. In times of need, buffeted by high winds, I gaze upon its contents, soaking up its shades of blue and green and earthy brown serenity. The handmade oak cabinet contains the meaningful, the gorgeous, the sentimental, the peculiar, the magical, the historical, the silly, and the symbolic. There is a simple glass door (open here) that encloses these treasures in a shelter from the chaos of the universe.

A partial inventory includes:

1. A cobalt blue and white Norwegian vase that my mother bought for me when we were in NYC when I was a teenager.

2. A miniature silver devil sculpture that my brother gave me. It should be placed near a fireplace, to protect the house from any spirits with bad intentions that might swirl down the chimney. Supposedly it repels the devil with his own mocking image. (Okay, so I don't have a chimney. It protects my collection from evil drafts that come in through the kitchen door.) My brother has the other of the pair.

3. Two fantastic vessels made by artist John Glick of Plum Tree Pottery, Michigan. Visit his Web site to learn about his work, his philosophy, and his creative process.

4. A pregnant-looking, incised vase I bought in London the year I graduated from college.

5. Four tiny turned wood vases, three from one of my oldest friends and one a treat to myself from another artist.

6. Two intricately detailed Native American vessels, one small, one even smaller, given to me by my husband and younger daughter.

7. Two Cyclops-like creatures from the Open Studio Art Gallery in Catskill, NY. This is a wonderful and strange place to visit, full of unusual creations. (See photo in article.)

Now, where is my cabinet of contained chaos to balance my cabinet of perfect order? Can a poem be either one?